


Crutch

by gonergone



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 22:13:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12735357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonergone/pseuds/gonergone
Summary: Everyone had their crutches, those days.





	Crutch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lissaline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lissaline/gifts).



Henry was never entirely certain when it had started, but he thought it must've been in the awful dark days just after they found Bunny's body, when he had been stretched too thin and exhausted. He hadn't been thinking straight; he knew that then and certainly knew it later, but at the time what mattered the most was just getting through it, one way or another. Everyone had their crutches, those days – they were all drinking too much, and there was a terrible undercurrent threat to everything that had made Henry's teeth itch. The menace of violence was there, all around them, from Charles and Francis and even himself – he could practically touch it, and he'd dig his nails into the palm of his hands and hope that they could just get through the days without someone doing something phenomenally stupid and making a bad situation worse.

As it happened, the someone was him.

Helping the Corcorans make plans for the funeral was something out of a nightmare; the dreary day to day and forced intimacy of staying at their home – _Bunny's_ home – and the thousand and one things he'd left undone in Hampden. He'd always managed to get along with Bunny's family without actually liking them, and there were times in those dreadful days when he wished he hadn't; that they had asked Charles or even Francis to come and help them make arrangements, although he wasn't entirely sure either of them could've been trusted in such an emotionally-charged situation.

The night before the funeral, he made his way to the sliding glass doors overlooking the backyard and stood looking out, hidden from most of the room. His head pounded, even through the pills, and the world was both too bright and had too many sinister shadows everywhere. He'd taken the last of his pills that afternoon, and he could feel it slowly wearing off, the dulled edges of pain springing into bright claws, a shuffling corpse slowly resurrecting. Bunny, perhaps, getting his revenge as he could, if Henry had believed in such things. 

"Are you all right?" Camilla asked, touching his shoulder gently. 

"Not really." He bit his lip. "I don't suppose it makes much difference, though, does it?"

He glanced back at the tableau behind them: grieving family, awkward friends, rambunctious children running from room to room and hitting each other with whatever they could get their hands on. He had never felt more disconnected from a scene in his life.

"There must be a hospital or something – maybe a trip to the emergency room?" Camilla's eyes were bright.

"If I leave, they'll want to know where I'm going. " If he told the Corcorans he had to go to the hospital their reaction would be as loud and overblown as a freight train. It was truly an option of last resort. Lying wasn't an option, either. He wasn't in a fit state to even think of something plausible. 

"What, then? You can't just go through it like this."

"I'll have to. It's just tonight and tomorrow. I doubt it will kill me." He gave her a thin smile.

"It might."

"To be honest, at this point I wouldn't mind very much at all if it did."

When she left, he didn't have the energy to follow her. 

He wasn't sure how much later it was when Richard brought him the candy-colored pills. He didn't even truly care what they were at that point. He took them gratefully. More than he should have, he knew that, but the pain was coming in waves and he was growing rather more desperate than he would've cared to admit.

The pills, along with the copious amounts of Scotch and soda (Richard was ridiculously easy to manipulate, even when Henry felt like he was barely functioning), put him in a strange, dreamlike state. Everything felt divorced from reality, blurred at the edges. His mind focused only on what was in front of him, and there was none of the usual rampant anxious need to try to be four steps ahead of the present. Actions seemed to have no consequences, and everything was very, very pleasant. 

That should've been his first clue that he was about to do something incredibly ill-conceived. 

He didn't mean to, of course. He sat in one of the cracked and dusty armchairs that had probably been in the Corcoran's basement before Bunny had been born, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He watched everyone else sleep – or, in Richard's case, pretend to sleep. After a few hours of his, something in Henry's brain clicked into place, and he walked silently over to where Richard lay. 

He touched his arm lightly, and Richard's eyes popped open immediately, black holes in the dark. 

"What's wrong?" he whispered.

"Nothing," Henry told him quietly, because it was true. Not a single thing was wrong in that moment. "Come with me."

Without protest, Richard got up and followed him through the maze of sleepers to the stairs, then into the empty living room, the light from the garden outside the only thing to guide them. When he turned to Richard, their faces were just inches apart.

"What's wrong?" Richard repeated, and this time the words were tinged with the beginnings of alarm.

Henry was reminded of the Greek work akrasia, which meant lacking the motivation to do something we know is good for us in the long run. The Greeks had always understood that sort of thing so much better than the Romans had. He couldn't think of the corresponding word for lacking the determination not to do something that we know is bad for us in the long run, but he was, for the first time in his life, intimately acquainted with the feeling. 

When he kissed Richard, the soft warmth of Richard's lips jarred Henry from whatever thoughts he'd still been able to muster. For a moment he wondered if he _were_ dreaming, but the solid feel of Richard's mouth under his, Richard's shoulder under his hand, Richard's stuttering chest against his were enough to convince him he that this was reality. Or what passed for it. 

When the kiss broke, there was a long moment of nothing but panted breaths on both sides as Henry waited for whatever reaction was going to be forthcoming. Richard didn't move away from him, and that was enough for Henry to kiss him again.

This time, Richard's mouth opened under his, and Richard's hand touched his neck lightly, almost shyly, before tangling in Henry's hair and pulling him even closer. 

It was good, the kissing, and Henry thought that Richard felt the same way, at least from the way his hands sprayed flat against Henry's back, his thigh flush against Henry's own.

Henry smiled against him mouth, his hand sliding down to Richard's hip, squeezing once. He was hard, and he could feel Richard answering hardness pressed against him.

Henry knew, even as he slid his hand down to stroke Richard through the thin material of his pajama pants, that this was a terrible idea, that the dynamics of their little group were balanced precariously on a knife edge, and a stiff wind could push them over into chaos. He knew that, and he couldn't bring himself to care.

Not caring was exhilarating, and he wondered dimly why he'd waited so long not to do it.

He dropped to his knees unceremoniously, looking up at Richard's sharp inhale. Richard's eyes in the dark were wide as dinner plates, but he helped Henry push his pants down, licking his lips. This was something Henry had always wanted to do, one of the many things he never thought he would.

He stroked along the head of Richard's cock with his forefinger, appreciating the velvety softness, the way Richard's body jerked when he pressed against it. He stroked further back, running his fingers along the length of the shaft and watching Richard's expressions carefully for everything they gave away. Satisfied, he licked his palm and wrapped it around the base, pulling forward ad back experimentally. Every whimper was information, and he thought distantly how much easier this might've been if he could think more clearly before pushing the thought away.

He followed his hands with his mouth, licking along the head while he concentrated on finding the right rhythm, the rhythm that made Richard start to moan before pressing his hand across his mouth, his eyes never leaving Henry's face. That was enough for Henry to smile to himself and lean in to the work at hand.

"Henry," Richard gasp finally, voice strained with the effort of keeping quiet. "I'm – I'm close."

Henry considered that, his body stilling for a moment, before continuing, faster. He was rewarded with Richard's hips jolting twice, shuddering hard as he came into Henry's mouth. 

After, Henry stood, helping Richard replace the pajama pants. 

"What do you want?" Richard asked quietly, and Henry blinked at him.

"Don't worry about me."

"I _want_ to worry about you," Richard told him, and Henry was surprised to realize it was probably true. For the first time he considered that this might not be quite the one-sided encounter he had been considering it to that point.

Richard's hands slipped under his shirt, skirting along his stomach and the waistband of his trousers. Henry closed his eyes, the sensation combined with the narcotics setting off a strange effect in his head that left him slightly breathless.

"Is this okay?" Richard asked. 

"Yes," Henry hissed softly. He didn't miss the quick quirking of Richard's lips before he leaned in and kissed Henry hard. Through the kiss, Richard's fingers moved further down, reaching to slowly stroke the head of Henry's cock while his other hand worked on opening the trousers. 

"Do you want..?"

"You can use your hands." Henry wasn't entirely certain how much experience – if any – Richard had had with other men, and even in his drugged state didn't think throwing him the deep end was going to be particularly satisfactory for either of them. 

Richard looked somewhat dubious at that, but relieved, too.

Hands turned out to be entirely satisfactory in its own way. Richard's hands on him were warm and sure, taking the time to explore the shaft before settling into a strong rhythm. It wasn't too long at all before Henry found himself coming hard against him, his ears ringing and bright colors exploding on the inside of his eyelids.

It took him a minute to catch his breath, and he leaned on Richard and felt Richard's arms slide around him for a moment before he pulled away.

"Are you okay?" Richard asked, and Henry hesitated before he sighed. 

"No, but I suppose we'll all get through tomorrow somehow anyway."

"That's not what I meant."

"I'll be fine," Henry told him, and hoped it was true.

"Sleep might help," Richard suggested.

Henry didn't bother arguing, although he knew sleep would be impossible, and followed Richard back down to the basement, hoping that the next day would never actually come.


End file.
